


Trinity

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-26 14:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15002588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: John Lennon loves three men during his lifetime.One is his escape, one is his guiding light, and one is his Earth, moon and sun.--Brief snapshots of each relationship.





	1. Stu: His Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's gonna be three chapters, but they'll probably all be short one shots like this one. I didn't go into too much detail with timelines and stuff like that with this b/c it's not too necessary.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

With Stu, John finds an escape.

It starts with a messy fuck, or something resembling a fuck, at least.

One night they’re hopped up on Benzedrine, courtesy of Stu’s brooding art friends — dressed in all black, oozing intellect and a mysterious sophistication, they hang around John and Stu’s small flat having quiet conversations about Beat poetry and philosophical musings. John jealously hangs off their every word, tries to contort himself into something resembling their blasé, minimalistic approach to life. 

They pull the plastic inhalers out of their bags and start passing them around. John raises his eyebrows, anxiously twists his beer bottle in his hands. 

“You crack it open and swallow the strip inside,” one of them says as they slide an inhaler to John. It rattles its way across the floor and bounces off John’s boot. 

“What’s it do?” 

“Keeps you awake, helps clear your mind.” 

Stu does it, so John does it too. 

After the others have left, they sit up painting and drawing. They strip down to their trousers and sit side-by-side, bare shoulders touching. Sweat rolls down their faces, makes their arms sticky where they touch. Sweat drips onto John’s drawings like tear drops, making the ink run down the page. 

The drug makes John jumpy. He starts pacing, tries to drink some more beer to mellow himself out. His hands won’t stop shaking. Stu keeps painting, manically dashing off one after the other. The sky outside is fading into a light blue. Stu flits around the room, reminding John of a wild feline, slender and slight. An ocelot, maybe. 

John starts feeling queasy. His heart beats rapidly in his chest, reminding him that he’s alive. 

The room is bathed in soft blue light coming in from the window. John sits on the couch next to Stu, stares into his eyes. Stu is a special kind of beautiful with his sharp cheekbones and full lips. John feels ugly in comparison. 

They’re sitting so closely that Stu’s breath is ghosting over John’s lips. John bounces his leg restlessly, the couch squeaking in tandem. Stu huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Maybe giving you an upper was a bad idea. You’re already restless enough as is.” His tinny voice is soft; his lips are curled into a smirk. Stu slowly brings his hand up and starts playing with the hairs at the back of John’s neck, pulling him closer. John breathes out a shaky sigh. He’s suddenly hard in his pants; his blood rushes like a river in his ears. Stu cocks an eyebrow, and John closes the remaining distance between them.

When they kiss, it’s tentative and a little messy. John misses Stu’s lips at first; he doesn’t know where to put his hands. He thinks he may vibrate right out of his skin. 

Then Stu is pushing John down and climbing on top of him, a cat stalking its prey. John feels Stu’s erection poking his hip. He groans low in his throat. 

They both scramble to remove their trousers, John digs divots into Stu’s shoulders with his fingers. Stu’s cock is hot and heavy in his hand, the velvety skin soft and delicate. 

They rut against each other. It’s unsteady; there’s no rhythm to it. Stu can’t keep time like John can. They gasp into each others mouths. Their kisses are sloppy — there’s too much spit; John’s lips slide over Stu’s. The inside of his mouth tastes sour from beer. 

Stu comes first, painting John’s thighs with stripes of his cum like it’s one of his canvases. John comes next, spills all over his stomach. Stu collapses on top of him, lands right in the mess. The air around them is muggy, scented with sex and the earthy, hot smell of sweat. 

The only sound in the room is their combined breathing. It makes John’s skin itch. 

“Well that was fun,” he finally declares comically, anything to move past the uncomfortable silence that’s settled around them. Stu snorts out a laugh and gently kisses John’s neck. John shivers and runs his hands along Stu’s smooth back.

They do it again the next day. And the day after that. Sex in the morning, sex in the afternoon, sex at night — they take advantage of every chance they can get. Some days John is happy to just sit and watch Stu, mesmerized by the way the late afternoon sun casts shadows on his angular face, how his eyes sparkle. 

Poor Cynthia doesn’t ask why John’s suddenly not so interested in with sex with her. 

Paul puts up a mask, hides his pain every time John blows him off for Stu. 

John throws himself into Stu’s world, gets lost in his art and philosophical friends. A part of him wishes he could _be_ Stu.

Stu is John’s gateway to a new life, a life free of Mimi and schoolboy exploits. In his life with Stu, John is smart and sophisticated — a bohemian who floats above everyone else, ascending to a new level of deeper understanding. 

So when Stu ends it in Hamburg and takes up with Astrid, John buries his abrupt return to reality — his pain — in booze. He snaps at Stu, taunts him, ridicules him. John wants to hurt him back, doesn’t want Stu to know how weak he is. He doesn’t fucking need Stu; he’s not some love-sick bird. John doesn’t need _anyone._

The tension between them is palpable in the air, but no one really knows what’s wrong. No one except Paul. 

“I’m sorry about Stu,” he quietly says one night squeezed together on John’s small bed. John narrows his eyes, crosses his arms. 

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” he snarls. Paul keeps a straight face, undeterred by John’s nasty tone. 

“I know you love him.” 

John blinks in surprise. His lip starts to tremble. Paul shushes him and pulls him into a hug. “You’re okay, Johnny. I’ve got you.” 

John sobs into Paul’s neck — drunkenly babbles against his skin — crying until his eyes are irritated and dry. When he finally sits up, he’s surprised to find Paul’s cheeks wet with tears. 

“Why’re you crying?” he asks, alarmed. Paul quickly rubs his eyes and huffs a strained laugh. 

“I’m crying because you’re crying. I hate seeing you so broken up.” He sniffs and squeezes John in a hug. 

They fall asleep in each others arms, crammed together on John’s bed. When John wakes up, he only remembers snippets from the night before. He’s in bed alone.

Two years later, when John finds out Stu's dead, he feels sick with guilt and heartache. 

Stu was John's escape, until he wasn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this was trash, who knows. I barely ever write from John's POV b/c I find it harder to do. Sorry if it was trash lmao
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


	2. Brian: His Guiding Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello I'm so happy everyone liked the last chapter!
> 
> This chapter is obviously about Brian. The conversation John and Brian have in the hotel is a direct quote from a conversation John supposedly had with Pete Shotton abt what happened in Spain with Brian. You can read all about it [here.](https://www.beatlesbible.com/1963/04/28/john-lennon-and-brian-epstein-holiday-in-barcelona-spain/)
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one, but I have a feeling the third chapter will be fairly long so there's that to look forward to!
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys!

With Brian, John finds his guiding light. 

The man with no son and the boy with no father. 

John doesn’t love Brian the way Brian loves him, but it doesn’t matter. Brian is always there. Even when John shouts at him, mocks him, hurls slurs at him and laughs like it’s no big deal, Brian’s still there with a patient smile and soft pat on the back. John lets Brian fuss over him because he never had a mother or a father do that for him as a boy. He lets Brian worry about him and coddle him, making up for all those years when he was a lost little boy with no one to turn to.

John doesn’t love Brian the way Brian loves him, and John uses that to his advantage. 

They go off to Spain. 

It’s pleasantly cool, the sun warming John’s arms as they sit outside a cafe in Torremolinos. Brian elegantly crosses one leg over the other and smiles over the top of his dainty teacup at John. John gives him a goofy smile and jerks his thumb over to point at a man sitting nearby. Golden curls swept up off his forehead, slender legs crossed at the ankle, a cigarette dangling effortlessly from his fingers. 

“How do you like that one, Brian?” John waggles his eyebrows, victoriously enjoys the light blush that colors Brian’s cheeks. 

“He seems very nice.” Brian takes a pointed sip of his tea and turns to stare out at the street. A man on a moped speeds by and sputters a thick cloud of exhaust. John can smell the ocean in the air, taste the salt. Torremolinos reminds him of Blackpool, not too special, but quaint in its own way. 

The sky bleeds from cerulean to deep indigo. The neon signs hanging in the bar windows start buzzing. The little town square lights up like a Christmas tree. 

They traipse off to the the seedier side of town. Like the nights before, Brian takes John to a gay bar and buys him bright, fruity drinks that make his teeth feel rotten. Men in drag saunter through the crowd and John ogles them, catches Brian doing the same. It makes them both snicker. Brian leans into John’s side, grabs his arm, caresses his chest. He’s drunk; John’s drunk too. The room, hazy with smoke, spins in lazy circles. Brian’s slumped against John, his lips brushing the skin of John’s neck. John lets it happen. He doesn’t miss the way Brian stares at him. John’s not stupid. 

They stumble back to the hotel. Brian sinks down on his bed and watches John with hooded eyes. A cigarette smolders forgotten in his fingers. John feels suddenly self conscious. 

This isn’t the first night this has happened. 

John’s emotions turn on a dime. He feels anger — _frustration_ — simmering under the surface. 

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Brian, just stick it up me fucking arse then,” he spits out, already clumsily working to tug his trousers off. Brian’s eyes fly open. John steps out of his pants and kicks them away. 

“Actually, John, I don't do that kind of thing,” Brian says softly, steadily looking into John’s eyes. “That’s not what I like to do.”

John makes a harrumphing sound and pulls his shirt over his head. 

“What is it you like to do then?” he asks, irritated. 

“I'd really just like to touch you, John.” Brian’s voice is so soft, so yearning, that John deflates, the anger leaving him as quickly as it came in. 

“Okay.” John climbs onto Brian’s bed and stretches out, his slowly hardening cock curved over his stomach. 

John expects it to be a little rough — he knows that’s what Brian is into — but Brian is disarmingly vulnerable, his touches gentle. 

Brian takes his time, touching John reverently, running his hands over the plane of John’s stomach. 

“You’re so beautiful, John.” 

John doesn’t have anything to say. He closes his eyes and loses himself to the sensations, pushes any thoughts of Paul out of his head. 

After it’s over, John locks himself in the bathroom. He takes a scalding shower, lets the water pound into his back and turn his skin red. He leans his aching head against the cool tile wall. His tears burn hotter than the water. 

They don’t discuss what happened the next morning, or the morning after that. John doesn’t make any more cracks about Brian’s sexuality, stops pointing out attractive men to tease him. It doesn’t feel fun anymore. 

John day dreams about Paul. Guilt burns a hole in his stomach. 

But he came to Spain for a reason. On their last morning, John looks at Brian over his newspaper. 

“I’ve been meaning to discuss the songwriting credits with you,” he says as he folds his paper up. “Don’t you think Lennon-McCartney sounds better?” 

John reaches out and grasps Brian’s hand, giving him a sweet smile. 

“It is better to be consistent,” he agrees, a knowing look in his eye. 

They go back to the hotel. John lets Brian touch him again, a silent agreement. A business deal. A promise. 

John doesn’t tell Paul about what happened in Spain. It’s something between Brian and him, a small piece of the relationship they share. 

Whenever John feels the ground crumbling under his feet, he turns to Brian and finds him there, ready to offer a helping hand. 

When John and Paul have a fight, shouting bitter words about commitment and love and secrets, John knows he can go to Brian. Brian’s always there, ready to put John right back on track. 

And when everything starts to get dark, Brian is John’s guiding light — a steady, understanding presence there to fill the father-shaped hole in John’s heart. 

They don’t talk about Spain, but surely he must know John loves him, even if it’s not the same way he loves John. John hopes it’s enough. 

Except then Brian dies, and as John sobs into Paul’s chest, he realizes that he never told Brian; he never took him aside and said ‘I love you.’ 

Brian was John’s guiding light, until he wasn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love comments and appreciate them all very much. 
> 
> Thanks friends. Also !!! very excited for Paul's new album!


	3. Paul: His Earth, Moon and Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the last chapter! Sorry I'm posting it so soon after the last one. I get super absorbed into writing when I'm really feeling the story. 
> 
> This chapter is longer and has a little more dialogue/plot than the others. 
> 
> TW anxiety attacks. 
> 
> Sorry this is so sad RIP.

With Paul, John finds his Earth, moon and sun. His solar system. His galaxy. His universe. 

_Limitless, undying love, which shines around me like a million suns,_   _And calls me on and on across the universe._

Paul is John’s everything. 

With his boyish charm and steady, loving patience, Paul is the only person who can keep John tethered to the Earth. John is a balloon and Paul is the boy holding the string at the other end. 

Paul is perfection. Slender hips, pouty lips, high arching eyebrows, eyes like a never-ending kaleidoscope of color. 

_A boy with kaleidoscope eyes._

John falls in love with Paul sitting outside Mendips, bony knees pressed together, guitar necks slick in their sweating hands, callouses aching on their fingers. John falls in love with the look on Paul’s face when he sings: that joyous grin that shows off his endearingly crooked teeth, the beginnings of smile lines creasing under his eyes. An unrestrained joy, the only time John can really see what Paul is feeling — the only time he lets his guard down. The sad boy with a dead mother unfurls like a blooming flower. It’s intoxicating. John craves it more than any drug he’ll ever try.

John makes love to Paul in Paris. Again and again and again. It’s addicting too. John is hooked on Paul and there’s no cure for this kind of addiction. They languish in bed, watching the sunlight move across the sky, casting shadows on the walls. They lie together, unsure of where one body starts and the other ends. They become one. 

As the years go by, whenever John feels the tendrils of depression licking at his heels, he calls Paul, and Paul always comes. 

It’s selfish, unfair. John is a sinking ship and he’s dragging Paul down with him.

One balmy night in the summer of 1966, John flies awake, sitting up so abruptly that he hits his head on the headboard with a sharp whack. He groans and fumbles around for the bedside lamp, but his hands are shaking. He clumsily swipes the lamp and it goes crashing to the ground. Cynthia startles awake at the sound. The blue-gray light of dawn filters in through the window and just barely illuminates her terrified face. 

John gasps and grabs his chest. His heart bangs against his ribcage; the sound reverberates in his head. He draws in ragged, sputtering breaths. He feels himself suffocating, figures he must be dying. It’s finally the end. 

“Help me, help me, please help me,” he begs. He stumbles to the living room, sinks down to the floor and holds his throat. His insides are burning. Soon he’ll be engulfed in flames, shrouded in thick, gray smoke. Only a pitiful pile of ashes will remain. 

Cynthia calls Paul. John can barely hold the phone up to his ear. Paul helps him calm down, coaches him through a series of breathing exercises. 

When John can finally breathe he bursts into tears. “Paul, please, I need you. Please.” Snot drips down over John’s lips. It’s salty on his tongue. He chokes out another heaving sob. 

John stays huddled on the floor until Paul gets there. He bursts into the room and sucks in sharp lungfuls of air. He’s panting, sweat shines on his forehead. 

“I got here as fast as I could,” he explains breathlessly. His hair is sticking up on end; his socks don’t match. 

They go the music room. Paul locks the door before they collapse onto the couch together. John sobs against Paul’s neck, soaks his shirt with tears and snot. Paul strokes John’s hair, hums under his breath. 

“I’m so sorry,” John whispers. Tears are dried on his cheeks. Paul lets out a sputtering, hysterical sounding laugh. 

“You scared me Johnny,” he whispers fiercely. “I thought I was losing you.” Paul kisses him hard; their teeth knock together. John’s surprised to taste tears on Paul’s lips.

They have sex on the couch. It’s passionate and sensual, a conversation without words. 

_“Please don’t leave me.”_

_“I need you.”_

Paul plunges in out of John with fluid, practiced thrusts. John moves in rhythm, lets out staccato groans that accent his harmony. It is impeccably timed, a beautiful symphony. The air hums around them like a great wall of brass. Paul speeds up; the music reaches a fever pitch. It’s frantic, the timing starts to break down. Paul squeezes John’s shoulders hard enough to leave red indentions. The music swells in a crescendo. John’s cum splatters their stomachs. Paul grunts; his cock pulses inside John. He rides out the answering decrescendo. 

“I love you,” Paul gasps out the last chord, the resolution. 

Then everything is silent. They breathe as one. The musicians take a bow. 

Paul is John’s Earth, moon and sun until he ends it in India under an inky black sky, the pale moonlight casting sinister shadows on his face. 

“I can’t do this anymore. I have to grow up. I’m going to marry Jane. I can’t do this to her.” 

John slaps Paul across the face. Red blooms across his cheek. He stumbles back and stares at John with wide eyes. 

“Fuck you,” John spits. “You’ve never loved me as much as I love you.”

Then Yoko comes in like a hurricane. Dressed in all black, a wild mane of hair framing her face, she pulls John in like a snake tamer playing a beautiful flute. She sets him free. He sheds the weight of the Beatles like layers of molting skin. In a way, she reminds him of Stu. Another escape.

John and Yoko are in a bubble. They ignore everyone on the outside. John turns his head whenever he sees Paul’s forlorn face looking in, those big eyes filled with anguish. John distantly wonders if that’s how Paul looked when his mother died. 

John pretends like he doesn’t care, convinces himself that he never needed Paul, tries to fight that addiction with heroin and acorns and Yoko, Yoko, Yoko. It’s all Yoko. She is John’s savior. Paul is a weight holding him back.

He relishes the pained look on Paul’s face when he asks for a divorce. Yoko whispers praises in his ear, offers up bump after bump of heroin, introduces him to a whole new world. 

John tricks himself into believing that’s he’s cured, free from his endless cravings for Paul.

But Paul visits John in his dreams, and John wakes up hard. He fucks Yoko and pretends it’s Paul. 

Paul was always John’s touchstone — a constant, steady presence that John could rely on. John never took the time to wonder if maybe Paul wasn’t as strong as he seemed. John was too scared to consider the possibility; he didn’t want to ruin his carefully constructed illusion of security. 

Except then Paul shows up on John’s doorstep. March 1969. John’s busy fucking Yoko. They don’t get very many visitors at their flat. He growls in frustration and hastily throws a silk robe on. His cock’s still obviously hard, tenting the thin material. He doesn’t give a fuck. 

He finds Paul standing there, his shoulders hunched, hugging himself like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. 

“Paul?” John’s voice comes out sharper than he’d intended. Paul flinches and further curls in on himself. There’s a flutter of anxiety in John’s gut. No matter how hard he fights it, he’ll always _know_ Paul. They’ll always be connected. “Paul what’s wrong?” John whispers. He steps outside and pulls Paul toward him. He expects Paul to fight him, but he goes willingly, slumping into John’s arms.

“I fucked up, John.” He shudders. “I didn’t know where else to go.” He makes a wet clicking sound in his throat, and John instantly recognizes the sounds of someone trying not to cry, the heavy breathing and whimpers. John steps back into the apartment, moving Paul with him. 

“What do you mean you fucked up?” John’s spine tingles with anxiety; he doesn’t want Yoko to come looking for him. He’s hit with the intense need to protect Paul; he doesn’t want Yoko to see him like this. 

Paul shakes his head and hiccups. He’s trembling in John’s arms. John smells alcohol on his breath. “Paul,” he says sternly. “What’s going on? Did you drive here drunk?” Paul sways and nods. 

“I fucked it up with Linda.” 

_Linda._ John scowls. 

“That doesn’t sound too devastating to me.” John can’t help but take the swipe. Even though John was the first to move on, he’s still jealous. Deep down, he still covets Paul as his own. Paul whimpers at the nasty remark. 

“We’re supposed to get married tomorrow. I fucked up so bad.” Paul moans. “I love her and I fucked it up just like I fucked it up with you.” 

“John?” 

John jumps and instinctively squeezes Paul against him, angles his body away from the doorway where Yoko is silhouetted. She’s naked, and John feels a flash of anger. Somehow he knows she knew it was Paul at the door. She’s letting Paul know exactly what he interrupted. 

“Go back to the bedroom,” John hisses. “I need to talk to Paul.” 

Yoko narrows her eyes. She knows all about them; he told her in a moment of weakness. He wishes he’d kept it a secret. 

“Did you tell him we were busy fucking when he barged in?” 

“Yoko go back to the fucking bedroom!” John’s voice rings in the hallway. Paul whimpers softly. Yoko turns on her heel and stomps off to the bedroom, slamming the door like a firecracker. 

John leads Paul to the living room and pulls him onto the couch. “Paul, baby, tell me what happened.”

Paul shakes his head and starts to weep, his entire body wracking with the intensity of his sobs. John momentarily freezes. This isn’t supposed to happen. Paul isn’t supposed to break. 

Except Paul is cracking open right in front of him, splintering into thousands of tiny pieces. John pulls him into a hug and rocks him back and forth. Maybe if he holds on tight enough, he can put the pieces back together. 

Soon Paul’s sobs turn into short, gasping breaths, and John is reminded of that early morning in 1966. He’s always wondered how Paul knew all those breathing exercises. It never crossed his mind that Paul might have anxiety attacks too. 

John clumsily does his best to help Paul breathe, digging up the memory of Paul’s soothing voice on the phone as he counted and took deep, whooshing breaths.

When Paul finally calms down, John kisses him. It’s the first time they’ve kissed since India. Paul’s mouth tastes like whiskey and salt. His lips are chapped. John can feel a spot where Paul’s gnawed at the skin. It tastes bitter and metallic. 

“I’m sorry,” Paul breathes against John’s lips. “I’m just drunk and upset.” He leans back, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have come. It’s the middle of the night.” 

“I don’t care. Are you okay?” 

Paul shrugs, stares at his hands as he explains the fight: the harsh words he hurled at Linda, the way she shouted right back. 

“I almost told her about us.” Paul takes a shaky breath. “I miss you, Johnny.” 

“I know, but you need to marry Linda. You love her and she loves you.” The words burn like acid, and what he doesn’t say hangs in the air: _She’s better for you than I am; we can’t be together and you know it; I’ve got Yoko; Linda is everything you’ve always wanted; nothing will ever be the same between us; I’m sorry._

They kiss again, but they don’t fuck. Yoko is in the other room waiting. Too much has changed. 

John instructs Paul to sober up before he drives home, makes him a cup of strong tea, and kisses the top of his head. 

John goes to Yoko. 

In the morning, Paul is gone. His teacup is in the sink. 

That afternoon he gets married, and John fucks Yoko. 

Paul was John’s Earth, moon and sun, until he wasn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I didn't put much thought into timelines and stuff for this particular fic. There are obvious embellishments here: I don't know if John or Paul ever had anxiety attacks; I don't actually think John ever hit Paul; and Paul and Linda really did fight the night before their wedding, but Paul went to his ex-girlfriend Maggie McGivern's place, not John's. 
> 
> I tried to convey the intensity of John's feelings for Paul but don't know if I quite got it?? I wanted to show how complex the relationship was, but again, I have trouble writing from John's POV. I relate so much more to Paul, so it's much easier to write from his POV.
> 
> I don't have a beta so my stuff probably isn't as top-notch as it could be so I apologize for that lmao.
> 
> This was an annoyingly long author's note sorry friends. Lmk what you thought abt the chapter. I love comments b/c I crave validation.


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